Unleashing The Dragon
by Lunamionny
Summary: In a world gone trope mad, Hermione manages to steer her way through a succession of barely plausible events and finds herself living with none other than Draco Malfoy. Written for the 'Sounds Like Dramione' comp 2019. Runner up in: Fan Favourite, Best Fluff and Best Hermione Characterisation.
1. Chapter 1

**Summary:** In a world gone trope mad, Hermione manages to steer her way through a succession of barely plausible events to find herself living with none other than Draco Malfoy. As she navigates through a quagmire of clunky clichés she learns, to her surprise, that Draco is not a horrendous housemate and - after a bit of tutoring - is a rather fantastic shag. But as the weeks go on, she also discovers that Draco is harbouring a dark secret that threatens to consume him.

**A/N: **

Written for the 'Sounds Like Dramione' comp 2019. Runner up in: Fan Favourite, Best Fluff and Best Hermione Characterisation.

The prompt for this story was: 'No one has to know what you are feeling, no one but me and you...' from Diary by Alicia Keys.

Huuuuuuge love and thanks to shuns, for her awesomely thorough beta-ing and to Frumpologist for her soul-inspiring, alpha cheerleading.

Rated 'M' for swearing and a wee bit of naughtiness.

Disclaimer: The characters do not belong to me but are the property of JKR And Warner Bros and no copyright infringement is intended.

I love Dramione and Dramione fics - all of them- and I love all you lovely Dramione writers. This is in no way meant to be a criticism of any readers, any particular trope or any writers. It's just a light-hearted look at ourselves, and I hope you enjoy!

NB: 'White Lightning' was a brand of (cheap and low quality) cider that was drunk copiously by teenagers/young adults throughout the UK during the 90s.

* * *

**Chapter 1**

"Right. Here's the plan. Number one: stay within the confines of this flat __all day__. Number two: block off the Floo. Number three: don't even think about answering the door -"

"Hermione, don't you think you're taking this a bit far?" Ron asked tentatively. He slouched on the sofa next to Harry, staying out of the way of the enchanted hammers and nails that were whizzing around their shared flat.

Hermione put her hands on her hips and gave the boys one of her best do-not-mess-with-the-Boss-Witch glares.

"It's the 31st of October, Ronald! It's __Halloween!__" she declared. "Something's going to happen! Something __always__ happens to us on Halloween! A troll lurking in the toilets. The Chamber of Secrets being opened. A mass murderer - yes, I know he was innocent all along, Harry- breaking into the school. A Death Eater hacking a magic goblet! My easy to remember twenty-seven point plan reduces the chances of 'Something Bad Happening' to 2.67 percent. Without it, there is a 92.4 percent chance of 'Something Bad Happening'. Do you want to take that risk? Well, __do you__?"

"She has a good point," Harry said to Ron. "An unprecedented amount of shit does seem to go down on the same day each year. You couldn't write it. If it was written in a story that something calamitous happened on the same date to the same people, readers would think the narrative wholly unrealistic. She's right, you know - "

"Of course she's right," Ron agreed. "She's Hermione Granger, the Brightest Witch of -"

"Don't say it!" Hermione cried out at the same time as Ron and Harry finished in unison:

" - Her Age."

The boys both turned to Hermione, eyebrows raised in surprise, clearly puzzled by her objection to the epithet.

"I'm just sick of that particular accolade," Hermione explained. "Can't people find some other way of describing me?"

"How about the Bushy Haired G -"

"No Ron! That's even worse. My hair isn't bushy anymore. I sorted it out and immediately got all hot, remember?"

"Right." Harry shifted uncomfortably.

"You were always pretty hot..." Ron remarked.

His compliment was said in a non-creepy, platonic sort of way because that was how things were with Ron now. It was really rather hard to share unprecedented, near-death experiences during ones formative years without forging a powerful, unbreakable bond of friendship. A bond that not even a temporary mutual attraction, followed by a brief courtship, and then a slightly awkward break-up could fracture. It had taken a bit of self-reflection and an intervention from Ginny, Harry and a full bottle of Ogden's but Ron and Hermione had remained good friends.

Hermione hadn't broken up with Ron because he was an anti-social/hot-headed/selfish/jealous/inconsiderate/near-psychopath. They found that they just didn't suit. He could be a little thoughtless, yes, and he was still working through his insecurities, but he was fundamentally a nice guy. If people were to love Hermione's potential future partner and their possible ensuing dynamics, it did not require hatred of Ron. Because, actually, he was an okay guy.

Now, a year after said break-up, and a year and a half since the war had ended, Hermione had effectively barricaded herself, Ron, and Harry into the London flat they shared together. She had sealed off the doors, windows, even the letterbox, and conjured protective wards over the hearth.

"Well, anyway, we've gone off topic. If we follow steps one to three and don't do __anything __except stay here and watch a few films until tomorrow, we should be okay," She turned, ensured her charms had attached the planks of wood across the fireplace securely, and finally stilled the plethora of DIY tools that had been flying around the flat. "There, I think we're done."

"So, we agreed on having a Gary Swotter marathon?" Harry asked excitedly.

"Yes," Hermione didn't care what they watched, as long as they stuck to 'The Plan'. She wedged herself between Harry and Ron on the sofa, as the opening credits of the first film began. "What do you like about Gary Swotter, Harry?"

"The escapism," Harry explained between bites of popcorn. "It basically depicts what I wanted my teenage years to be - just dealing with ordinary teenage dramas, rather than a cray-cray dark wizard with a fucked up nose."

Gary Swotter was a series of seven books that had been adapted into films due to their unprecedented popularity in both the Muggle and Wizarding World. They told the story of a boy born into a loving, wizarding family but who was devastated on his eleventh birthday when he failed to receive a letter from Hogwarts. To his dismay, he learned that he was actually a squib and had to attend the local comprehensive school. The seven books told the story of his next seven years as he learned about the Muggle world and the coming-of-age dramas that ensued. The books were so popular that people had started to write stories of the stories - 'fanfiction', Hermione thought it was called, although she'd never read any of them.

"It's funny how your names rhyme, isn't it, Harry?" asked Ron.

"Yeah, weird coincidence. Now shhh, this beginning bit's important," admonished Harry, who was already engrossed in the film.

They were halfway through the third film, __Gary Swotter and the Prisoner of Broadmoor - __in which an escapee of the infamous psychiatric hospital, Gary Swotter's third cousin twice removed, was thought to be menacing Gary's comprehensive - when an owl bounced off the glass on the other side of the living room window. It shook its head and hit the window again, then landed on the sill outside, and started pecking the glass with its beak, a letter clutched in its talons.

"Ignore it," Hermione ordered the others. They complied without question because Hermione was in 'BAMF mode' and the two boys knew by now that the best way of responding to her when __that __shit was going down was to do as they were told.

Over the next two hours, the sound of hooting, fluttering and pecking increased as two, three, then countless owls swooped down and settled on the sill outside the window. They all carried a letter, and even though the three friends were assiduously ignoring them, they could see the letters were all addressed to Hermione.

"Just ignore them and they'll go away," said Hermione through gritted teeth for the fifty-second time. A bag of crisps that she hadn't realised she'd been twisting in her hands burst open, showering her with crumbs.

They were just starting the fourth film, __Gary Swotter and the Goblet of White Lightning __\- in which Gary and his friends experiment with alcohol and other 'recreational' substances - when someone knocked on the door for the tenth time.

"Hermione, maybe you should just open one of the letters," Harry finally pleaded. "You're being worse than Uncle Vernon on the-day-I-got-my-Hogwarts-letter day."

"No!" Hermione's voice was shrill. "No communication with the outside world!"

"Geez, Hermione, you sound as batshit as Bellatrix," Ron retorted.

Harry froze and Hermione tensed. Three pairs of eyes flicked to Hermione's left forearm. Ron shrank sheepishly into the sofa, covering his face with his hands. "Sorry, Hermione. Bad comparison," he mumbled.

"Why is it, that when a woman gets passionate or angry, she is deemed __mad __or __neurotic __or __hormonal __, but when a man does it -"

The start of Hermione's 'Rant Against the Patriarchy' was interrupted by the sound of splintering wood. The three turned towards the fireplace to see that the planks that Hermione had fastened across it had started to bend outwards and crack. The nails holding them to the surrounds pinged off into the room and the three friends took cover to protect themselves from flying pieces of debris. There was a puff of green smoke as Kingsley Shacklebolt burst from the hearth. He skidded clumsily across the floor, and came to rest on his arse in front of the three bemused friends.

"Hey, Minister." Harry was the first to recover.

"Good afternoon. Humph, took quite a bit of force to counter those charms, Miss Granger," Kingsley said as he hauled himself to his feet and brushed himself down. "Very impressive as always, Brightest Witch of Your Age and all that."

Hermione sprang up from the sofa, brandishing her wand. She was quite put out that Kingsley had overcome her wards but then, he __did __have far more experience than her. She supposed she was only the Brightest Witch of __Her __Age, not __all __ages __ever __.

"What is it?! What's happened?!" she exclaimed. "Is Riddle back? Did he win this whole time? Was there a rebellion at Azkaban? Did someone get hold of a time-turner and change history, so we're now living in an awful Voldemort-won alternative reality that's just going to get really fucking dark, to an almost gratuitous, sensationalist degree?"

Kingsley's eyebrows had crept higher and higher as Hermione spoke. They now seemed to be on track to meet his nonexistent hairline. He collected himself and chuckled heartily. "None of those things. A bit far-fetched, don't you think? Although very imaginative."

"Fine. Then, whatever you're for, I'm sure it can wait until tomorrow," Hermione grabbed Kingsley's elbow and started guiding him back towards the fireplace.

"I'm afraid not. It's rather important. And it is the 31st of October, so I thought it would be nice to continue tradition and ensure that something significant happened to you today!"

Hermione groaned resignedly, but she couldn't help but be curious. Of course she couldn't, she was Hermione Granger and had to know All The Things.

"Miss Granger," Kingsley continued, his tone now grave. "I think it's best if we talk alone."

* * *

"So!" Kingsley exclaimed a little while later. The two were sitting at the small kitchen table, cradling mugs of tea. "Would you like to know who has been chosen to marry you?"

Hermione's heart was lodged in her throat and her stomach was somewhere in the vicinity of her feet. She had listened, in utter disbelief and horror, to Kingsley as he related the somewhat nebulous set of circumstances which meant that a new Ministry policy had been put in place wherein witches would be forced to marry a collection of wizards in order to procreate and re-populate the dwindling magical population. Kingsley explained that they had used various 'hocusy-pocusy spells and such' to find the perfect combination of witches and wizards to create the most 'gloriously super-duper magical children ever'.

Hermione thought she really should bring the whole discussion to a swift close. But, she was still curious. "Okay," she said uncertainly.

Kingsley ceremoniously unrolled a piece of parchment in front of him and smoothed it out on the table. "Your matches are: Severus Snape, Lucius Malfoy and Antonin Dolohov - they got pardoned, as you know," Thinking that was it, Hermione opened her mouth to speak but Kingsley interrupted, continuing, "Neville Longbottom, Cormac McLeggan, and...Draco Malfoy," Kingsley stopped and assuming he was __now __finally finished, Hermione went to speak again. "Oh, and me!" Kingsley added, beaming as if he was the cherry on the cake.

Hermione's vagina recoiled.

"Seven? That seems rather a lot?" She was unsure how best to navigate her way out of this ridiculous proposition, so she thought she'd just keep Kingsley talking for now.

"Seven's the most powerful magical number!"

"And that's it? The reason I get seven husbands is because of __symbolism __?"

"Hmm-mmm." Kingsley nodded and smiled, appearing completely unfazed by Hermione's incredulity.

Hermione paused and took a deep breath. She needed more information because Knowledge was Power.

"Why is the majority of the list ex-Death Eaters? Why can't there be more men who are already my friends, or that I at least feel indifferent about?"

"Well, that would be no fun. They'd be no hate-to-love journey for you, no angsty hate sex where lust overcomes reason, no -"

"I'm fine with that," Hermione stated definitively.

"Hmm...well, give these men a chance Miss Granger, you could play a crucial part in their Journey to Redemption."

"Why does their Journey to Redemption need to involve my vagina?!" Hermione was aware her voice was getting shrill. She took another deep breath. "Can't they redeem __themselves __? Why do __I __have to save them? You know, women already do a significant proportion of invisible or unseen labour and that needs to change-"

"Miss Granger, I'm afraid I have only so much time this evening. What do you think?"

__No __, was what Hermione thought. She had already mentally organised her objections into three domains: ethical, biological and practical. Regarding practicalities, Hermione imagined the smell and the mess of sharing a flat with Ron and Harry times by 3.5 to arrive at seven - ugh - men. Ron never put the toilet seat down and Harry always put the empty milk carton back in the fridge (why, oh why would one __do __that? An __empty __cartoon?). And having to shag __all __of them - as sex-positive as she was, Hermione felt exhausted just thinking about it.

"Surely it would be more efficient for one man to marry a lot of women? Babies would be conceived and born quicker, as men don't get pregnant, obviously?" Or __do __they, under this mad scheme? Oh God, please don't let there be some awful magic which meant that men could get pregnant...although it would be __fascinating __to see how gender norms and roles evolved -

"Ah, well, there aren't enough fertile witches, you see," Kingsley explained.

"Right...and what about IUI?"

"Eye you eye?"

"Intrauterine insemination. It's used in Muggle fertility treatment. Some of the man's sperm is - inserted, as it were - into the female at the right time of the month. She's only fertile for a few days of the month anyway, she really doesn't need to shag the __whole __time and she doesn't need to be in a relationship with anyone, let alone marry them! And then there's IVF, but if these witches are 'super-fertile', as you say, that may not be necessary."

Kingsley looked put out, as if Hermione's logic was all rather inconvenient. "Well…because...eye-to-eye won't work with magical kind."

"I think it will."

"Well," Kingsley sighed impatiently. "What if we compromise? You just have to marry - and preferably have lots of hot sex - with one of them!"

Hermione didn't think that was much of a compromise, but she thought Kingsley might be unwittingly giving her an opening to out of this whole mess, so she took it. "Which one?"

"We can pick their name out of a hat!" Kingsley declared, sweeping his hat from his head.

"You don't have a more logical process than that? Shouldn't it be based on the man most well matched to me regarding potential likeliness and quality of offspring?" Hermione asked, unimpressed.

"Nope. Let the fates decide! Besides, if you don't comply with this at __all __, I'll have to send you to Azkaban and, to be honest Miss Granger, I __cannot __be arsed with the paperwork."

"Okay, we can pick one, but I'm not marrying them," Kingsley looked beseechingly at Hermione. "Marriage - particularly __arranged __marriage - is an antiquated, religious, patriarchal institution which does not fit with my progressive, secularist, feminist values. I'm not saying I'll never marry, but I certainly won't be cajoled into a forced one! I don't know why you ever thought I'd agree to this at all!"

"Well, we thought we'd appeal to your self-sacrificing nature..." Kingsley mumbled.

"For God's sake, I'm not __that __self-sacrificing! You can't use one personality trait like 'self-sacrificing' to justify me making decisions that would effectively be so out of character!"

"Don't you want a wedding, so you can wear a pretty dress?" Kingsley persisted.

Hermione's exasperation grew. "What is this obsession with getting me married!? When have I ever shown an interest in pretty dresses?"

"Well, I heard the one you wore to the Yule Ball was rather lovely," Kingsley retorted defensively.

"Everyone goes on about my bloody Yule Ball outfit 'cause it's the only time in my whole life I haven't worn a school uniform or jeans and an __H and M __top! Besides, I have issues with the fashion industry - children in developing countries earning barely a knut a day, cooped up in sweat factories - it's worse than the house-elves' situation - "

"Fine, fine!" Kingsley cried. "You can just pick one - out of my hat - and don't marry them but just cohabit. After all, I have an inkling that you will fall deeply in lust and/or love with this match in no time and then want to make babies with them out of your own volition."

Hermione couldn't help thinking that Kingsley was being rather...__lazy __about this but if he was, that worked in her favour, so she wasn't going to complain. She narrowed her eyes. "For three months, tops."

"No! Forever."

Hermione laughed, becoming somewhat delighted at the total absurdity of this whole situation. "Four months," she bargained.

"A year."

Hermione was surprised by how quickly Kingsley had caved. She gave herself a mental high-five for wearing him down. Nevertheless, she continued. "Five months."

"Six."

"Deal," Hermione agreed, knowing when not to push her luck. They shook hands.

Kingsley then flicked his wand and severed the parchment into seven pieces with one smooth movement. The slips scrunched themselves into little balls and bounced into the hat.

"Right. Pick your poison," Kingsley gestured to the hat, beaming excitedly

"Indeed."

Hermione took a deep breath. Just six months, she told herself, it'll fly by - you'll be at work or out and about with your London mates most of the time. Ignoring the churning of her stomach, she reached into the hat and picked out a piece of parchment. With her heart pounding in her ears, she read the name scrawled on it:

__Walden Macnair__


	2. Chapter 2

"Walden Macnair?!" Hermione exclaimed incredulously. "He wasn't even on the list!"

"Wait. Shit. No." Kingsley was all flustered. "That was the wrong parchment. Oops, these are Luna Lovegood's matches."

"You're going to pair Luna with Walden __Macnair __?" Hermione's heart hurt because she couldn't bear it when people did awful things to Luna. It was definitely one of her squicks.

"Well, probably not anymore. We were relying on you to agree to this, you see. Witches would have followed your example. Since you aren't getting married, we may have to re-think the whole darn thing...perhaps that I-owe-you-an-eye thing you mentioned..."

"IUI. I thought you said it wouldn't work with magical kind?"

"Well, there's always room for more research. Anyway, here you go," Kingsley repeated the parchment-ripping-and-scrunching-into-a-ball thing. "Second time lucky!"

Again, Hermione reached into the hat and pulled out one of the small balls of parchment, praying for Neville - __Nev, come on Nev __\- they'd have fun together, he could invite Hannah round. His grandmother was a handful but they could -

Her heart sank as she read the name on the parchment:

__Draco Malfoy __

Who would have thought it? There was a situation in which she needed to be paired with someone else and out of __all the people, __that person had been Draco Malfoy. Her childhood nemesis.

Kingsley passed Hermione a piece of dull silver parchment. "Have you heard of Power Parchment? Theodore Nott created it. You're one of the first to use it!"

Hermione had, indeed, heard of Power Parchment. A person was given a piece of charmed parchment, and a second party was given its 'twin'. If both people had activated their parchment, they could write messages to each other, the message immediately appearing on the twinned parchment. Hermione was reluctantly impressed with Nott's ingenuity. The Protean Charm was limited in the number of characters that could be used and the distance over which one could send a message. The magical world had been looking for an alternative for some time and Godric forbid they use a telephone.

"Mr. Malfoy has its twin, so you can message him about...arrangements. The password is 'Password one' with a capital 'P' and the number one, but you'll need to change that when you first use it. Rules are: you must cohabit and spend at least three waking hours of each day - on average - in each other's company." __Balls. __There went Hermione's plans for evenings with friends and weekends away. "Start cohabiting this weekend, preferably, but no later than a week's time. Right, I'm off," Kingsley pushed himself up from the table. "Need to go and tell Malfoy junior the good news! I'll see myself out."

Kingsley nodded goodbye and strode out of the room, leaving the three friends looking helplessly at each other as they heard the bangs and thuds of the Minister floo'ing away.

* * *

Hermione put off messaging Malfoy until the next morning. When she ran out of reasons to delay it further, she laid her Power Parchment down next to her tea and porridge and waved her wand over it. It glowed a bright silver, then dulled again, indicating it had been activated. A message appeared in typeface: __Enter password. __She scrawled __Password1 __into the required space.

New instructions appeared: __Enter new password. __Hermione scribbled __Lionsroar101 __onto the parchment. It made an irritating pinging noise and turned a light shade of red.

__Unable to update password. The value provided for the new password does not meet the length, complexity, or history requirements of the domain. Password must contain six letters, four numbers, a capital letter, and a special character. And you must stand on your head whilst writing it. __

Hermione huffed impatiently, assuming the last part was some pathetic joke of Nott's and tried __Lionsroar1234! __It pinged again and turned a deeper shade of red.

__Password not strong enough. Sequential numbers are not allowed. This isn't your luggage, peasant. Try harder. __Urgh! Hermione wrote __NottisaNobhead!1979 __in both 'boxes' on the parchment. It made the infuriating chiming noise again and turned a deep shade of crimson, making it hard to decipher the writing. She mentally drafted an owl: "Dear Theo, Your user interface is BALLS."

__Passwords do not match. __

Hermione pushed down the urge to __Incendio __the bloody fucking piece of parchment to ashes. But she didn't think that would be prudent, so instead she made a mental note to __choke __Theodore Nott the next time she saw him.

Summoning all her patience, she tried again __Pa$sword1357 __and finally the parchment reverted to a readable silver and shimmered slightly. It was finally connected to its twin. A message then appeared in unfamiliar handwriting:

__DM: Granger. We need to talk logistics. __

The parchment indicated the message had been sent at three o'clock the previous afternoon. Malfoy must have written it straight after Kingsley had left him. __Keeno__, Hermione thought as she scrawled a reply:

__HG: Malfoy. Yes, we do. __

Hermione expected a delay before Malfoy's reply, he could be busy or still sleeping or hopefully something else that would delay his response. But his handwriting appeared only a minute later.

__DM: Took you long enough to reply. Did the parchment's security charms get the better of you? __

Hermione hadn't finished her morning tea yet and hence was __not __in the mood for Malfoy's bullshit. Nevertheless, she was determined to respond to him with maturity and serenity.

__HG: Fuck off ferret face. __

__DM: Nice. So, I was thinking we should probably live in Malfoy Manor? __

Hermione stilled at the suggestion. Her heart was beating loudly in her ears.

__HG: I don't think so. I don't think that would work. __

__MF: Why not? __

Why not?! Did he really need that spelling out? But Hermione was finding it hard to write the honest answer, especially on this ridiculous, flawed method of communication. Instead, she wrote an excuse.

__HG: Your mother hates me. She wouldn't want to breathe the same air as me or have my mudblood hands touching her silverware. Which will just make me want to pull all her designer clothes out of her wardrobe, throw them on the floor and roll around in them out of spite, smothering them with my mudblood scent. I don't think it would end well for anyone. __

There was a pause before she saw Malfoy's writing appear again.

__DM: As much as I'd love to see that, she doesn't hate you, Granger. She actually half smiled when I told her about the possibility of you staying which, for her, indicates ecstatic excitement. __

Hermione's thoughts continued to whir, but then she gave into writing the truth because, really, she had nothing to be ashamed of.

__HG: I'm going to need a bit more trauma-focused therapy to be able to enter your drawing room without having a panic attack. __

There was another pause, a much longer one this time. Typeface appeared on the parchment: __Draco Malfoy is writing __. Hermione waited, willing the stupid words to turn into the ferret's handwriting. After five minutes, in which she had finished her tea and gotten up to put the kettle on again, a message finally appeared:

__DM: Fair enough. __

That was it?! He took five long minutes to write fair-__fucking __-enough?

__HG: We could rent a flat in London? __

__DM: I'm not good with crowds. How about this - there's an old farmhouse on the estate. Cutsie country cottage feel. It won 'Best Rustic Interior' in __Witch Weekly's __Comfy-Cosy-Cottage Awards last year. You'd probably like it. __

Why on earth was Malfoy 'not good with crowds'? And how did he know she'd like a cute country cottage? Which she actually __did __like the sound of, even though it was on the Malfoy estate.

__HG: Okay. Fine. __

__DM: Fine? __

__HG: Yes, fine. I'll come and live with you in your cutsie country cottage, Malfoy. __

* * *

Two days later, Hermione found herself standing at the entrance of a pretty, picturesque cottage - the epitome of 'cutsie' - on the grounds of the Malfoy estate, her trunk in tow. She knocked on the door, trying to push down her skittering nerves. It opened and Malfoy, all blinding, blond hair and pale, pointy face, filled the frame.

"Granger," he drawled, giving her a short nod of acknowledgment and opening the door wider to let her through.

"Malfoy," Hermione echoed Draco's bored tone as she stepped over the threshold.

"Yippeeee!" Malfoy exclaimed, startling Hermione. Had Malfoy had a sudden, uncontrollable outburst of enthusiasm at her arrival? And/or...had the war driven him mad?

Then a house-elf appeared at Malfoy's side and she realised he'd only been calling his servant to him.

"Yippee, would you be so kind as to take Granger's shit up to her room?" Malfoy said indifferently, nodding towards her trunk.

"It's not __shit __-" Hermione started, but the elf interrupted her.

"Yippee welcomes you to Constellation Cottage, Miss Herminnie," Hermione couldn't help but snort inelegantly at the dwelling's pretentious name. "Yippee has been asked to inform you that I is a free elf, with a salary and employment contract, which includes twenty-five days of leave a year, excluding public holidays."

Hermione narrowed her eyes, suspicious. "What if you're not free and you've been ordered to lie to me?"

"It offends Yippee that you think Yippee would lie," the elf said sadly, his eyes watering with tears.

"What if you've been ordered to lie about lying? What if - "

"So this got boring fast," Malfoy interrupted Hermione and the elf's exchange. "Yippee, take Granger's shit - trunk - to her room, now, please. Granger - I'll show you around."

"Your house-elf is called Yippee? Isn't that a bit ridiculous?" Hermione asked as Malfoy led her into a homely living room. She noted a crammed bookshelf along one wall and her knees went slightly weak at the sight of it.

"All elves' names are ridiculous," Malfoy drawled in reply. "His brother's called Ki-yay."

"Yippee...Ki-yay?" Hermione clarified, a little distraught on the elves' behalf.

"Yep. Their previous owners were fans of some absurd Muggle action film. Here's the kitchen." Malfoy gestured around a room that was surprisingly airy and spacious for a cottage kitchen. Light streamed in through the windows. It was rather lovely.

Malfoy then showed her the three bedrooms upstairs, the last of which had Hermione's trunk neatly deposited at the foot of the bed.

"But Malfoy, only one of the rooms has a bed - this one?" Hermione asked, thinking maybe he hadn't finished moving all the furniture in.

"Oh yes, there's this thing, you see," Malfoy began conversationally. "This house is cursed. It can only have one bed in it at any given time. We've tried to put a bed in the other rooms, but the cottage rejects it. They spontaneously combust or disintegrate, or sometimes just - whoosh - They've gone! Disappeared!"

"There's only one bed?"

"There's only one bed," Malfoy confirmed, not seeming at all put out by this fact.

Hermione let this sink in. There was only one bed. "And you didn't mention this before because...?"

"It just...slipped my mind," Malfoy explained weakly.

"So, where are you going to sleep?" Hermione asked, crossing her arms over her chest.

"I thought we might share?" Malfoy asked hopefully. Hermione spluttered out an incredulous laugh. There was no freaking __way __that was happening. Not even topping and tailing.

"I'll take the sofa," Hermione bit out.

"No! No, __I'll __take the sofa. It's fine, you have the bed," Sighing resignedly, Malfoy turned towards the stairs, mumbling, "...Worth a try..."

"What about this room?" Hermione asked, gesturing to a closed door across the hall they hadn't opened.

Draco halted abruptly on his way down the stairs, looking suddenly wary and guarded. "Oh, that's - that's private," Then his tone became unusually earnest. "I want you to feel at home here Granger, but I ask you to never go in that room. It's private. Do you understand?"

So of course, Hermione wanted to immediately barge through the door of the mysterious room and see what Malfoy was hiding. She made a mental note not to tell Harry about it - he would lose his mind imagining conspiracies - it would be like sixth year all over again.

"Of course. I understand," she choked out, as she followed Malfoy down the stairs.

* * *

To satisfy the Ministry's 'three hours a day on average in each other's company' rule, Hermione and Malfoy agreed to have dinner together each evening, as they both spent each weekday working.

Hermione was relieved that Yippee was a good cook because, as much as she liked good nosh, she could not be arsed to spend hours cooking it. Surprisingly, though, Malfoy did - he would often help Yippee with dinner preparations.

Hermione and Malfoy's conversations were awkward and stilted at first. On their third evening together, they found themselves talking of their eighth year at Hogwarts.

"You know, there was a rumour that you might have been made Head Boy during eighth year, as a kind of reconciliation gesture," Hermione mused out loud.

"Yeah, I heard that," Malfoy sniffed and shook his head. "But why would they __ever __make me Head Boy? I spent most of my school days being a racist bully. Yeah, I got good marks, but then I became a follower of one of the darkest wizards of the century. That alone should have made them think 'Nah, not __quite __Head Boy material', but __then __I spent a whole year working out - __successfully __\- how to smuggle a load of homicidal maniacs into the school and then I - then I," Malfoy drained his glass of wine, interrupting himself. "Basically, I agreed with McGonagall that, as much as they wanted to push the reconciliation agenda, attempted murder of a headmaster was not on the 'Head Boy: Desirable Traits' list."

Well...when he put it like that. "I see what you mean," Hermione agreed, twirling some of Malfoy's delicious homemade tagliatelle around her fork. "So, are you still a racist bully?"

"Are you still an insufferable swot?" A pained look of wariness flickered across Malfoy's face. He refilled his glass and paused before continuing. "Apologies - it's still - I still find it hard to talk about...I've had to question nearly every ideal, every belief, I've grown up with. But no. I don't believe that pureblood Hippo-shite anymore."

"But the bully bit remains accurate then?" Hermione asked dryly.

Malfoy's lips curled up into a mocking smile. "Only when people don't do what I tell them."

The rest of the meal continued in uncomfortable silence and clumsy conversation.

"What do you want to do now?" Hermione asked when they cleared away their plates after the meal. They had more 'Ministry hours' to make up because, during the evenings up until then, Malfoy had disappeared into the forbidden room upstairs straight after dinner until bedtime. How he spent his time in said room remained a mystery to Hermione.

Malfoy tensed as he dropped some dishes into the sink. "Erm, read?" he suggested, shrugging.

"Oh, is that what you do in the room upstairs, then?" Hermione asked, trying to sound casual and hide her ever-growing curiosity, as well the involuntarily stirring of excitement she felt at his suggestion they read together.

Malfoy just shrugged in answer and then turned and sauntered into the living room. Hermione followed him, a glass of wine in hand, as he grabbed a book, slumped down on the sofa and started reading, ignoring her completely. Hermione supposed it was a tolerable way of spending time in Malfoy's company and therefore meeting the Ministry's requirements. She sat down on the sofa opposite Malfoy and opened her copy of __Wuthering Heights. __

She tried to immerse herself in Catherine's passion and Heathcliffe's angst but despite herself, her eyes kept flicking across to Malfoy. The sight of him lounging and reading was doing odd and disconcerting – but not unpleasant - things to her insides; it was like butterflies were fluttering their wings deep within her stomach.

Inevitably, he caught her staring. He arched an eyebrow, questioningly. "Everything okay there, Granger?"

She blushed - she was always bloody blushing - and mildly hated herself for doing so. "Just wondering what you're reading?" She tried to sound nonchalant and probably failed.

"__The Great Gatsby __," he replied, his face expressionless.

Hermione bit her lip in an attempt to stop the unruly torrent of words that threatened to issue from her mouth. She had __so __much to say about The Great Gatsby.

"You've read it?"

"Yes." Of course she had.

"What do you think of it?"

"Well, it's beautifully written. There are some fantastic passages in it and it's amazing how much Fitzgerald fitted into such a short novel," Hermione gushed. She really couldn't help herself. Not when it came to books. "But...the characters aren't particularly likeable. Just a load of rich people spending most of their time being nasty to each other. So, I can see how you might relate to it," she finished snidely. She really couldn't help herself from getting a dig in. Not when it came to Draco Malfoy.

Malfoy smiled. Yes, he actually smiled __not __smirked, albeit it was a short lived, half-arsed kind of smile. "There __are __some beautiful passages in it," he agreed.

"What's your favourite bit - or quote?" Hermione asked. Because she was curious, of course.

"'So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past,'" Malfoy recited softly.

Hermione paused, letting the words ripple through her mind. They really were rather lovely. "And do you think that's what happens sometimes, that you're borne - or pulled - back into the past, despite wanting to…move on with your life?" Hermione found herself asking.

"I do sometimes. Especially when __some __people make remarks about how I'm just a rich person that spends all his time being nasty to people," Malfoy replied, wryly.

Hermione felt a little guilty, which made her feel defensive and she was about to retort with something that would probably have made the conversation even more antagonistic when Malfoy asked, "What are you reading?"

"I'm re-reading __Wuthering Heights__. Have you read it?" she echoed Malfoy's question back at him.

Malfoy nodded and Hermione sat up so quickly in surprise she nearly fell off the sofa. Her body had continued to react in traitorous ways to Malfoy and the surprising direction the conversation had taken. She was getting rather excited. Heat rolled over her in a wave and her heart was pumping hard in her chest. It was the result of discussing books without having to threaten, cajole or bribe someone - her friends - into reading them. The Books and The Words, God damn them, they were her weakness. A weakness that Draco Malfoy appeared to have stumbled upon.

"'Treachery and violence are spears pointed at both ends; they wound those who resort to them worse than their enemies,'" Malfoy quoted, and Hermione's breath caught in her throat. __Oh blimey __, this conversation was getting rather meaningful and… __profound __. Then Malfoy's earnest expression morphed into a smirk. Honestly, she should make a drinking game of his smirks - the 'Smirky Malfoy Drinking Game', one sip a smirk - but she would be well and truly smashed each time she played it.

"What about you? Bet you love those angsty, passionate, romantic bits," and Malfoy raised his arm, gesticulating wildly and cried out, mock dramatically: "'He shall never know I love him: and that, not because he's handsome, but because he's more myself than I am. Whatever our souls are made out of, his and mine are the same!'" He clasped at his heart and practically fell off the sofa.

Hermione actually fucking loved that quote and to her horror, she found she'd creamed her knickers at the sound and vision of Malfoy reciting it. She berated her body again for betraying her and glowered at him.

"Your choice of quotes are such clichés. You probably just read a 'best quotes' list and memorised it," she retorted.

"Quotes, clichés, and tropes are overdone for a reason - because people like them. Just because they're popular, doesn't mean we shouldn't indulge our love of them."

It was a very good point and Hermione didn't disagree with him, but she didn't want to admit this of course. Instead of replying she made a show of returning to her reading.

As Malfoy did the same, Hermione couldn't help but think over what had just passed between them. She reminded herself that, no matter how many books Malfoy might have read and how many beautiful sentences he could quote, he was still an arsehole.

You can be an arsehole and read books, she knew this rationally. It wasn't as if, because Malfoy read books, the memories of his previous arsehole-erish behaviour had fallen out of her head. Although it was a little bit like that because she was really rather turned on. She thought about popping upstairs to have some 'alone time', but she was aware it might seem a little odd if she disappeared to her room for fifteen minutes in the middle of the evening. So instead, she deposited it in the wank bank for later.


	3. Chapter 3

Over the weeks that followed, Hermione and Malfoy fell into a comfortable routine. After work, they would sit down to a dinner made by Yippee and Malfoy, and then they would retire to the living room to read. The initial awkwardness between them was dissipating. They would often discuss their reading, and literature in general. Then Hermione would scurry to bed to relieve the sexual tension that had built up in her throughout the evening. The brain _ was _ the sexiest organ, she reasoned to herself.

She was frigging herself off far more than she usually did. But then, a single girl had needs. She contemplated owling Charlie Weasley to see when he was next in the country. She had hooked up with Charlie a couple of times since Ron and she had split up. It had felt rather..._awkward _ that the next man she had shagged after breaking up with Ron had been his brother, but Charlie's broad shoulders, muscular torso, cheeky grin, and sparkly eyes had been rather hard to resist. They'd both agreed that it was just, and would only ever be, a Booty Portkey though, especially since Charlie lived abroad.

During the weekends, in order to tally up their hours in each other's company, Hermione and Draco took walks around the Malfoy estate, with the heir showing Hermione all the ground's secret places. They never ventured towards the main house though; Malfoy made a deliberate effort to avoid it.

Sometimes they would take a trip into Lacock, the local magical village, which reminded Hermione of Meryton from _ Pride and Prejudice. _ Why were wizarding villages all so _ twee _? Clearly, rural poverty was not a thing in the Wizarding World like it was in the Muggle one.

Outside of the time they spent together, Hermione noticed Malfoy's continued disappearances into the mysterious upstairs room. He seemed to return to the room every spare minute he had. When he wasn't at work or spending mandatory hours with Hermione, he was in that bloody room. Her curiosity about what lay beyond the ubiquitous wooden door grew, but she appreciated Malfoy's right to privacy, and she tried to squash her nosiness away.

Slowly, Hermione grew to feel more comfortable in Malfoy's company. If she were truly being honest with herself, when he wasn't being surly or sarcastic, she found she quite enjoyed being around him, and that his conversation was stimulating. There were certainly other stimulating things about Draco Malfoy, which discombobulated her somewhat, but she reasoned that there was no harm in a bit of fantasising, even though the fantasies she had about Malfoy did seem to be some of her dirtiest and filthiest. They just needed to stay fantasies, she told herself.

* * *

About six weeks into her stay, on the Saturday before Christmas, Hermione was standing in the kitchen with a mug of tea cradled in her hands, gazing out the window at grey clouds and penetrating rain. She was contemplating the bleak beauty of the scene and the profound way a ray of sun or a somber, overcast sky could evoke joy or melancholy -

"This weather is. Taking. The. Piss," spat out Malfoy, who had silently come and stood next to her, breaking her pensive mood. She turned and frowned at him.

"What?" he asked defensively. "It's been pissing it down for three days now!"

Hermione sighed and went to wash up her mug. "What shall we do today? We have to catch up on our Ministry hours and outdoor stuff is out of the question."

"Well...there was one thing - I thought - maybe - we could-well-um-" Malfoy stuttered and rubbed the back of his neck, agitatedly. Hermione didn't think she'd ever seen him look so awkward. What did he want to do with her that was making him so uncomfortable?

"I wondered if you wanted to - to-visit-the-Manor?" His words came out in a rush and it took a moment to decipher them. "Just the library? I thought you might like to see it." Hermione's stomach flipped over and she felt herself flushing. The Malfoy Library. "My mother's out today and we don't have to go anywhere else in the house but the library. I can Apparate us right there -"

"Yes," Hermione interrupted Malfoy because his ramblings were needlessly keeping her from the only thing she would _ ever _ want to see at Malfoy Manor. "That would be lovely."

* * *

The assault on Hermione's senses was overwhelming. Rows and rows of undiscovered text. The scent of parchment and pages, old and new, and the leather that bound them. Her mouth watered as she ran her fingers lightly along the books' spines. Her cheeks burned with warmth as she picked out a rare tome, and she made a special effort to slow her breathing and not hyperventilate at the rustle of pages as she perused contents tables and indexes.

Malfoy had said she could bring as many books as she wanted back to the cottage and she had just added her twenty-sixth book to the stack floating alongside her when he came up behind her. She could almost _ hear _ his smirk - take a sip from your glass for the Smirky Malfoy Drinking Game - as she turned towards him.

"We can always come back, you know. It's not now or never," he said, eyeing the tower of books hovering beside them.

"But these are my emergency books, what if I run out of things to read by the end of the week?" she pleaded.

One of the books on the pile shifted precariously and as Malfoy leaned forwards to steady it, Hermione caught his scent. Or more accurately his scents: sandalwood and cedar, maybe a hint of vanilla, new _ and _ old parchment, as well as ink, and something sweet like summer fruits, but also musky like wet earth. The rich smell of the coffee, he'd had for breakfast seemed to dominate though and did she detect the buttery notes of a croissant? Wrapped around it all was something indescribable - something that just seemed uniquely _ Malfoy _.

How on _ earth _ could one person smell like any or all of these things!? Hermione thought to herself. Generally, when she was around Harry or Ron, they just smelled of... _ boy ._ And maybe cheap aftershave. And any other human didn't smell of all these richly descriptive things, as far as she was aware.

Then a thought hit her: maybe she had werewolf blood in her? Or vampire? But no, she was Muggle-born, she couldn't have. Or _ could _ she!? Maybe she was actually the pureblood, love child of Regulus Black and Marlene McKinnon or something. But that would make her related to Malfoy - well, they were all related really, the inbred idiots - which made her feel decidedly icky.

If she _ was _ a pureblood, it would somewhat make a mockery of her whole identity and what she had stood for during the last seven years: that a Muggle-born could be as highly skilled at magic as the purest of purebloods, that a Muggle-born was the 'Brightest Witch of Her Age', that a Muggle-born had played an invaluable part in bringing down one of the most powerful dark wizards of all time. It was _ her _ being Muggle-born which showed up pureblood supremacist beliefs for what they were - inaccurate and hollow and hateful.

But anyway, she very much liked this complex, uncanny scent that Draco seemed to have, even though no other human had any such thing.

"Oh, God," Malfoy was looking at her apprehensively.

"What?"

"You're doing that thing again - when your mind goes off to God knows where. I can almost _ hear _ those cogs whirring in that enormous brain of yours. It's unnerving, like I can hear you narrating your life, and maybe going off on inexplicable tangents about everyone and everything."

Hermione didn't want to admit to Malfoy that she had been thinking deeply about how nicely he smelt, so instead she diverted the topic. "'Oh God?' That's a Muggle saying? Shouldn't you be saying 'Oh gods' or 'Oh, Merlin' or 'Salazar's socks' or 'Rowena's tits' or -"

"Why wouldn't I say 'Oh, God'? Wizards follow monotheistic religions too - we celebrated Christmas at Hogwarts remember? And had Easter holidays - what?" Malfoy interrupted himself. "Why are you looking all weird?" Hermione was aware her lips had parted and her cheeks were burning with heat.

"You just...it was - you said an unusual five syllable word...I...I like words..." Hermione found herself garbling.

Draco smirked. "What - monotheistic?"

Hermione's breath hitched in her throat - it always seemed to 'hitch in her throat' in these situations - and she was incapable of making any sound except a small squeak.

Malfoy took a step towards her. "_Mon _ ," Hermione backed into the shelf behind her. "_Oh _ ," Draco was so close now she could feel the heat of his breath on her cheek. "_Thee _ ," His (really complicated) scent was delightfully overwhelming and her knees had seemed to turn to water. "_Ist, _ " her breathing had become uneven and she couldn't stop looking at his lips - his beautiful lips - as he enunciated each syllable. This wasn't fair - how was she meant to put up a resistance against _ this _ ? "_Ic," _ Malfoy emphasised the last syllable with an arched brow and a smirk (she owed herself another sip).

Hermione was overcome with 'extensive vocabulary lust'. She lost control of her levitation charm and the books cascaded to the floor. She fisted Malfoy's jumper in her hand and pulled him towards her, pressing her lips to his in a hungry, desperate kiss. He responded immediately, kissing her back as his arms encircled her. He bit down on her bottom lip gently and the kiss deepened as their mouths parted and tongues slid against each other in one delicious, urgent snog.

There was a faint wailing in the back of Hermione's mind: _ what the fuck are you doing, tonguing ferret face in the bloody library of Malfoy Manor? _ But the feel of Malfoy's hand on her waist and the other at the nape of her neck, of his fingers threaded in her hair, made her moan into his mouth and drowned out the troublesome voice.

He broke from her lips and feathered light kisses along her jaw until he reached her ear. "Don't fucking _intellectualise_ this, Granger," he whispered. "Just go with it. The_ identification and_ _rationalisation_ of what is occurring won't do us any favours. It might be _uncharacteristic_ of us, but that's okay."

She whimpered. He'd just said too many long words, her knickers were well and truly ruined.

"You really do like those six-syllable words, don't you?" - _ Fucking arrogant prick _, even though he was right - "Shall I move onto seven?"

"Not here," Hermione managed to murmur as Malfoy started to kiss and nibble at her neck.

"Not in the library. It's wrong."

Malfoy tilted his head back and frowned at her questioningly. "I thought you'd love to shag in a library?" His fingers stroked down her neck, then lower, gliding over her breast before swooping down and grabbing at her arse, which was somewhat unexpected, but certainly not unwelcome. "Thought it'd be your ultimate fantasy."

It was an effort to re-assemble her scattered thoughts into something coherent, but Hermione managed it. "No. It's like a Catholic bonking in the Vatican. It feels sacrilegious."

Then, before she knew what was happening, Malfoy wrapped his arm around her waist, pulled her to him in a tight embrace, the air was pushing inwards and colours whirled blindingly around them. Hermione was falling - into her bed at Constellation Cottage with Malfoy leaning over her, his cheeks flushed and eyes glazed with lust.

"Can we get the fuck on with this now?" he asked thickly between kisses, running his hand up her thigh. Her skin tingled where he touched her, as if her nerves were coming alive just for him.

"Yes. But I still hate you." She hurriedly untucked his t-shirt and scrabbled her hands underneath it, finding his taut stomach and chest.

"And I can't fucking stand _ you _." He pushed up her skirt and his fingers grazed the edge of her knickers. Then he pulled them to the side and trailed a finger through her needy centre, causing her to let out a quiet keening noise she didn't know she could make.

"You pale pointy prick." She reached out and unbuckled his belt.

"You insufferable, interfering know-it-all swot."

"You - ah, fuck, that feels so goooood." His fingers rubbed and circled her clit. She was astounded he'd found it so quickly. So astounded she had to concentrate hard on getting his fucking zip undone and yanking down his trousers and boxers. His cock sprang free, eager and enthusiastic. They both paused, looking down at it.

"You unleashed The Dragon," he drawled. She stilled, a little mortified. Did he really call his penis 'The Dragon'? With capitals? As in, a proper name? And did he really think that was _sexy_?

"Don't make this weird," she advised warningly.

He looked sheepish. "Sorry," he said and then made up for it by dipping a finger inside her, touching the exact spots she needed. She moaned. They both did. "You're going to feel so fucking good. So tight. So wet."

After some awkward shuffling, they were both divested of their clothes. He was bloody beautiful, kneeling between her legs, running his cock along her wetness, taunting and teasing her. Hermione arched her back, indicating how much she wanted him to just fucking _ pound _ her already. (She secretly liked being made to beg but, as this was their first time and this was _ Draco Malfoy, _she decided to let her kinks lie for now, especially the more submissive ones.)

"You want this?" Malfoy murmured, his voice low and thick.

"Yes. Please." Okay, maybe a bit of begging was too hot to resist.

"Say it. Tell me what you want.

_ God, he really was an obnoxious nob. _ Still, his words had coaxed another wave of wetness from her. Because dirty talk was also so very hot. "I want you inside me."

He shifted and dipped his fingers inside her again. She squirmed against the mattress and moaned wantonly. "Like this?"

_ No, not like-fucking-that, you twat _ . She shook her head because words were so difficult to verbalise, although she knew he wanted more than a gesture. He bent his fingers forwards and she let out a guttural groan. "I want you - I want your _ cock _ inside me."

Malfoy let out a strangled kind of moan and withdrew his fingers. Then, with relief, she felt him enter her, filling and stretching her. Every nerve in her body pulsed for him, some muscles tightening whilst others seemed to melt. She cried out as his rhythm built the tension in her core to a crescendo. She looked into his eyes, his steel grey eyes, like scaffolding poles…no, that wasn't quite right. They were more like liquid mercury...or maybe storm clouds. Or slate, like the slate of those cottage roofs in the Cotswolds where she used to go hiking with her parents. Although, that didn't adequately evoke how they kind of glimmered, a bit like the scales of a fish…oh, for _ fuck's sake _ , his eyes were _ grey _ . Just fucking _ grey_, Hermione chided herself.

Unfortunately, thinking of scaffolding and her parents - and fish - had taken Hermione out of 'the moment'. Although she was still very much enjoying herself, her body was not quite in sync with her mind because she couldn't help thinking what the hell was she doing having sex with Draco Malfoy. She didn't even like the guy...did she? She wasn't _ supposed _ to like him, she was supposed to hate him...or just feel indifferent? The opposite of love was indifference, not hate…and she certainly didn't feel indifferent about him, not anymore…love and hate, two sides of the same coin, isn't that what they said?

Malfoy's primal groans grew louder and his face started scrunching up in odd ways. Hermione felt his cock get even harder and she watched it, even more turned on than she'd already been, as he came inside her. (She had, of course, been taking contraception and STIs conveniently didn't exist with magical kind so she'd covered all bases.)

Malfoy leaned down and kissed her, deeply and slowly, before rolling himself off her and moving his hand between her legs. "Oh!" Hermione exclaimed softly, jerking away from him slightly. "It's okay, I'm just a bit sensitive now."

"But - but - you didn't come?" Malfoy said frowning, the determined face of someone who's recognised a wrong that he needs to make right.

"No, but that's okay, it was still really good," Hermione reassured him. Because, really, it had been.

Malfoy's frown deepened. "It's not okay. Sorry, I should have made sure - before we started –"

"But I asked you to fuck me," Hermione leaned forward and kissed him gently on the lips. "You know, only eighteen percent of women come through vaginal penetration alone. And…it's unrealistic for me to have a mind-blowing orgasm with a new partner. But that doesn't mean it wasn't good. In addition, having mutual orgasms be the end goal of sexual intercourse is actually only _ one _ way of having sex - there are different ways of having sex -"

"Okay, this is getting boring, which is surprising given how many times you've said 'sex' in the last minute. What do I need to do to make you come? Tell me." Malfoy asked matter-of-factly.

Hermione giggled at his forthrightness. "It's not that you didn't do anything right, it's just that…you're new to me…and it's harder to completely relax with a new partner. You know, my whirring cogs and everything.'" She gestured to her head, making a circular motion with her hand.

"How long did it take with Wanksplat Weasley?" Malfoy asked, sulkily.

"Which one?" The words were out before Hermione could stop them. _ Oops _.

"Which _ one _ ?! Have you shagged them _ all _?!"

Hermione couldn't help sniggering at the possibility of being paired up with every Weasley sibling.

"No. Just two," she explained. "But listen - to manage your expectations for next time," - Motherfucking Merlin, was there going to be a next time? - "You're probably going to have to work at me for at least half an hour. Then we can take a break, see where we're at and talk about next steps."

Malfoy's eyes narrowed determinedly. "Challenge accepted."

* * *

After the Christmas holidays, Malfoy - and his 'Dragon' - did, indeed, _ rise _ to said challenge with enthusiasm and dedication.

Hermione had spent Christmas with her parents. Yes, with her parents, whose company she cherished after spending nearly all her life from the age of eleven at either Hogwarts, the Burrow or Grimmauld Place. But once she and Malfoy returned to the cottage, they fell back into their previous routine, with the addition of partaking in frequent, hot and increasingly satisfying sex.

Towards the end of January, Hermione was browsing the shelves in the living room of the cottage, looking with interest at a row of seven books, when Draco came and stood behind her. She could feel his heat as he wrapped his arms tightly around her waist and pulled her into his chest.

"You have all seven Gary Swotter books. All first editions," Hermione remarked.

"Hmm," Draco mumbled an acknowledgment as one of his hands moved up her body and squeezed her breast roughly, causing her to flush with heat. She felt him growing hard against her lower back as he started nipping and kissing the soft skin of her neck, something he'd learned she loved.

"You're a Gary Swotter fan?" Hermione managed to ask.

"Hmm-mm. I love it. I love it almost as much as I love how wet your tight cunt gets," His hand deftly unbuttoned her jeans and dipped under the waist of them into her knickers, his fingers expertly rubbing over her clit. "Which is really rather a lot". She let out a strangled whimper at his words and his touch, her legs quickly becoming so weak she had to reach her hands out to cling onto the shelves in front of her.

Draco had been a quick and conscientious learner. He was now more than proficient at hitting Hermione's buttons, all twenty of them. His fingers circled, dipped and stroked with a perfect pace and pressure. Hermione tilted her head so that they were kissing deeply and urgently as she ground her hips back against his hard-on.

It wasn't long before she came, gripping the bookshelf so tightly it wobbled ominously and Malfoy's copy of _ Gary Swotter and the Goblet of White Lightning _ fell down, hitting them on the head. It was a hardback edition as well, to Hermione's chagrin, although fortunately one of the shorter stories.

There wasn't a horizontal surface in the cottage that they hadn't made excellent use of. They had also discovered that quite a few vertical surfaces were extremely accommodating when one used magic.

* * *

It was towards the end of January that Hermione noticed a change in Malfoy. Dark circles appeared under his red-rimmed eyes. At first she thought it was due to the amount of copulation they were engaged in. But he would increasingly miss dinner or retire early from their mutual evening reading to spend hours in the mysterious room upstairs. They had started sleeping together in the cottage's lone bed but Hermione would frequently wake to an empty space next to her, creep out to the landing and notice a light glowing from under the door of the forbidden room.

What was he _ doing _ in there? Hermione had asked herself so many times she was becoming bored of her own thoughts. Was it some kind of sex room - like a BDSM dungeon? But then, why was he in there on his own? Oh god - oh Merlin - he wasn't keeping a sex slave in there was he? Or a harem of them?! No, that was ridiculous. But then, if it wasn't that, what was it? Hermione's thoughts churned endlessly around in circles, but frustratingly failed to take her anywhere useful.

She'd tried to ask Malfoy what he was doing, subtly and politely at first, and then more assertively and forcefully. When he _ did _ respond - for he was becoming increasingly withdrawn - it was to tell her to mind her own business and respect his privacy.

He became less playful and more sullen as the days went on. Hermione noticed he started to lose weight. Then she heard the rumours - which she later verified as fact - that he had fallen asleep at work on more than one occasion. When he'd missed a fifth crucial deadline, Hermione decided things had gone far enough and she would have to take things into her own hands.

During the middle of a workday, when she knew Malfoy had a mandatory meeting, she Apparated to the cottage. She had to find out what in Merlin's name he was doing in that bloody room. She felt guilty for betraying Malfoy's trust, but her concern for him overrode her guilt. What lay beyond that door, holding him to the room as if he were tied to a leash? What darkness lay within?

She started out with _ Alohomora _ and variations of it, then escalated to a _ Bombarda Maxima, _ before resorting to a powerful _ Incendio, _which finally did the trick. The door collapsed to the floor as the flames died and Hermione stepped over the smashed and smouldering wood into the room beyond.


	4. Chapter 4

Hermione stepped into a very mundane-looking study.

How very anticlimactic.

Books lined one wall - which she tried not to get distracted by – a small sofa sat against the opposite wall and a desk and two chairs were positioned in front of the window. But it was what was on the desk that made Hermione start in surprise: a shiny Muggle laptop, with a modem next to it, small lights blinking energetically and various black cables snaking down to electricity sockets in the wall. Why on earth had Malfoy installed Muggle electricity in his cottage and what was he spending so much time doing on his laptop?

Some kind of addiction, Hermione presumed grimly…gambling, gaming…porn? She sat down at the desk, turned on the laptop and stared at the log-on screen. Squashing a second round of guilt, she started inputting password guesses: various versions of Malfoy's and his parents' names, their date of births, 'pureblood' and similar words, all to no avail. Then she moved onto Quidditch, various names of equipment, his favourite team and its players: nothing. Literature – all that she had learnt of his favourite authors and quotes. Still nothing.

Then, trying to ignore how very narcissistic it was of her, she typed in 'Hermione' and variants of her name, including 'Mione' - she cringed a little at the thought of Malfoy calling her that - 'Hermie' and 'Herms' - she vomited a little bit in her mouth at those two. None of them worked. Then, her final shot: 'Granger'. Nothing.

This called for desperate measures.

She reached into her pocket, pulled out her Muggle mobile and scrolled through her contacts until she got to 'Thomas'. She pressed 'call'.

The phone was answered on the third ring. "'Ello?"

"Dean. Hi, it's Hermione."

"Hermione! Hey – great to hear from you! Wassup? How're you doing?"

"I – I'm good thanks, hon. I need your help with something but...it's not quite legit..."

"Are you after drugs?" Dean's voice became hard. "Great Hermione, the token black guy must be the drug dealer! I know I helped Nev sell some of the weed he grew in eighth year, but really, you'd think I'd have enough prejudice to deal with being Muggle-born in the Wizarding World – and that you, above all people, would understand that - but then being black in the Muggle world as well –"

"No! No Dean, I don't want any drugs!" Hermione protested. "I need - I need to hack into a computer.

There was a pause.

"Then you're talking to the right guy," With relief, Hermione could almost hear the mischievousness grin on Dean's face. "What make is it?"

Dean didn't ask any questions about who's computer she needed to hack into or why, and Hermione loved him for it. This wasn't some 'Gryffindor's Golden Girl' thing, it was because she and Dean, being two Muggle-borns in Gryffindor Tower, had formed a special bond of friendship and trust over the years. Dean's little sister used to keep them updated about what was happening in _Grange Hill _and he had introduced Hermione to _Nirvana, Oasis _and _Green Day _\- something Hermione was forever grateful for; she still kept the mix tapes he made her. They had grown especially close after sharing their mutual grief over Kurt Cobain's death.

Hermione followed Dean's meticulous, jargon-ridden instructions as best she could, flashing through countless screens, until finally Malfoy's password appeared in the necessary box:

_UnleashingtheDragon69. _

Hermione kicked herself for not guessing this. She had tried variants of 'Dragon' but not this particular combination.

"Thanks, Dean," Hermione gushed appreciatively.

"No worries. How's it going with that-there ferret face?"

Hermione paused. _How was it going? _ Well, generally not so bad, except for this little mystery she was trying to solve. "It's…it's actually okay. How's Seamus?"

"Beautiful," Dean enthused. "We got into a bit of an argument the other day though. He thought I was only with him for his accent. I mean, his accent is fucking hot, but that's probably only eighty percent of the reason I'm with him. Then, ten percent is his cock, which is just _perfect –"_

"Dean - TMI, hon."

"Ah. Sure, that's cool. Right, gotta go - got some drugs to deal. Joke…although, you know, I might have a bit of hash if you wanted to get a little stoned sometime?"

Hermione thought how nice it would be to see Deanmus, her favourite slash couple, again. "Yeah, that sounds good. Text me some dates."

"Cool, will do. See ya, Hermione."

Hermione stared at Malfoy's desktop, trying to decide which to search first - his documents or his internet history. But then she heard a shuffling behind her and a shadow fell over the desk. She turned to see Malfoy standing with his arms stiff at his side, his hands balled into tight fists. His jaw was clenched shut and his eyes glinted with a fury she'd never seen before.

She was well and truly busted.

"Malfoy – I -"

"That desperate to find out my sordid little secret?" he asked bitterly.

"How did you know I -"

"The cottage is charmed so that I know if any offensive spell has been cast in it," he interrupted impatiently.

"Oh. Of course," Hermione mentally kicked herself because, really, she should have known that Malfoy would have such protective wards on his cottage.

"Get out," Malfoy spat the words at her, his voice hard and cold, his wand arm twitching by his side. But Hermione didn't move. She had faced far more frightening things than Draco Malfoy with a Niffler in his knickers.

"Malfoy – I'm _worried _about you," Her voice was plaintive. "I didn't mean to betray your trust, but I can't ignore this. Whatever's happening – you need help. And – and I want to help you."

His lip curled up into a snarl. "Why would you want to help me - the_ 'racist bully' _?"

"Because – because –" Hermione thought. Why _did _she want to help him? Why was this so important to her? "Because I care about you. And I don't believe you're a racist bully – not anymore." She finished softly, her voice small, only just realising herself how true the words were.

Something shifted in Malfoy's face - his expression lost its hardness and his shoulders fell resignedly. He came and sat down on the chair beside Hermione.

"I don't think I've ever known someone as interfering and nosy as you," he said, although the previous bitterness of his voice was gone. "This - secret of mine - it's - it's - really hard to explain. I've not told anyone – no one else knows. I need you to promise me it'll stay that way?" He looked into her eyes, his gaze intense and penetrating. Hermione reached out and clasped his hand in hers.

"Malfoy," Hermione understood how hard it must be for him to be this vulnerable with her. "No one has to know what you are feeling, no one but me and you." She had her fingers crossed behind her back as she said it because if Malfoy's secret was _really _freakish, she felt she might have to tell _someone _.

"Okay. Hermione -" and suddenly, as Malfoy uttered Hermione's given name for the first time, a clap of thunder resounded loudly, reverberating along the walls of the room and shaking the window in its frame. Malfoy jumped. "What the _hell _?" he spat.

"I think it's maybe like pathetic fallacy? Because...because you called me 'Hermione'..."

"So?" Malfoy scorned.

"I think maybe it signifies a crucial turning point in our relationship?"

"Okaaaay" Malfoy said, clearly unconvinced. Then he frowned suspiciously at her. "Are you gonna start calling me 'Draco' now?"

Hermione tilted her head, thinking. "Maybe not quite yet. I'll wait for, I don't know, a resolution or completion of a satisfying character arc."

Draco shrugged, clearly ambivalent. Then his brow furrowed and his face grew serious again, as he seemed to remember why they were there. He turned the laptop towards him and clicked on the mouse a few times before turning the screen back to Hermione. She braced herself before looking at it, preparing to be confronted with some awful, hardcore pornography. But when she looked at the screen, all she saw was text. She skimmed over some of the words: _Gary Swotter... never been so hungover in his life...too much White Lightning... _

"Are you – are you reading an e-version of Gary Swotter?" Hermione asked, confused. Was this all it was? He was just nerding out for hours re-reading his favourite childhood books?

"No. No, Hermione. It's fanfiction. I read fanfiction. Gary Swotter fanfiction, exclusively."

"You read what now?"

"Fanfiction...have you heard of it?" Malfoy asked shyly.

"Yes...but I've never read any of it...isn't most of it appallingly written?"

Malfoy's eye twitched. She'd clearly said the wrong thing.

"No," he said defensively. "Some writers are extremely good, their work is better than some published novels I've read, and some of them _are _published authors."

"Okay," Hermione placated, trying to process what he'd said, synthesise it with previous information and empathise at the same time. "So, that's what you've been spending all this time doing? Reading fanfiction?"

Malfoy shook his head sadly. "Not quite. There are - there are these internet forums - social networks - full of people that read it too, and they keep recommending stories and I - I feel kind of..._ panicked _if I haven't read a recommended one, and then I get sucked into discussions and stuff - and I just don't know where the time goes..." Draco finished despairingly.

"So you're spending all this time chatting online to people about fanfiction, as well as reading it?"

"Yep. You see, they don't know my past - to them, I'm not some antihero with a complicated backstory. I'm just a Gary Swotter fan who likes reading. Some of them are really cool."

"The stories or the people you're chatting with?"

"Both," he said in a small voice.

"Malfoy," Hermione hesitated, not sure how she should say her next words but knowing that sometimes honesty was the best policy. "You know these people aren't your _real _friends don't you?"

"But they're the only ones that understand! I can't tell my real friends - they won't understand, they won't get it!"

Hermione thought of Crabbe and Goyle. No, they really wouldn't get it. "How many of these forums or groups are you on?"

"About twenty."

"Twenty!? Why are there so many? Surely there's one group for 'Gary Swotter fanfiction' and that's it?"

"They're mostly split according to pairing." No doubt seeing Hermione's perplexed expression, Malfoy continued hurriedly. "The fandom likes to pair characters up romantically, and then join their names together to create one name, called the 'ship name'."

Hermione had to pause before she spoke again. This all sounded totally bonkers but she didn't think it would help to verbalise this view.

"But friendship and parental love, they were the main themes in the books weren't they?" she said instead. "That's why I liked them. In film and literature generally - particularly young adult literature - friendship is often demoted or side-lined in favour of romantic relationships. But in the Gary Swotter books, that isn't the case."

"But then there wouldn't be any smut," Draco said, as if the idea of a ship-less fandom was utterly ridiculous. "Well, I guess there are gen fics...but overall, people have a favourite pairing and I - I can't decide on my OTP." His voice sounded wretched again.

Hermione was desperately trying to keep up with the new vocabulary and acronyms. 'Jen fics'? She couldn't remember there being a character called Jen in the Gary Swotter books. "Oh-tee-pee?" She queried.

"One True Pairing - basically, your favourite couple that you will die defending. I like them all so I read all sorts..."

"Well, that's okay, isn't it? Surely the pairing shouldn't matter? Isn't it the plot and quality of writing that matters?"

Malfoy shook his head adamantly. "People kind of fall in love with certain characters and relationship dynamics and I feel like I need an OTP to - to solidify my fanfiction identity."

Hermione's empathy was being stretched by trying to understand the tendency to fret over imaginary fictional couplings. Hence, she was a little thoughtless with her next words. "Malfoy, I think you need to get out more."

To his credit, he didn't get cross, but instead huffed a futile little laugh and then looked at Hermione as if deciding something. "That - that's not the worst thing," he said softly.

Oh god, what could the worse thing be? Did he do role play? Did he dress up as a Gary Swotter character and gallivant around his estate, with other fan-nerds, acting out scenes from the books? As accepting as Hermione wanted to be, she didn't think she could handle that.

"What?" she asked hesitantly.

"I - I write as well," Malfoy croaked as if he were confessing to murdering a load of Pygmy Puffs. Then his words came out in a rush. "And it's hard to put your work out there. It's like cupping a little piece of your soul in your hands, holding it out to people and saying: 'Like me! Please like my soul!'"

"Isn't that a bit dramatic?" Hermione couldn't help asking doubtfully.

"Not when you write from the _heart _!" Malfoy cried dramatically, punctuating the statement by banging his fist on the table. "And then - and then readers can like it - by clicking on an icon of a thumbs-up - or follow it or comment. And I've gotten a bit obsessed with the feedback. When I get a thumbs up - it's - it's like an endorphin hit. And when someone comments, it's just like taking fucking _ecstasy. _I keep checking and re-checking to see what's happened. I even thought of getting one of those Muggle smartphones so I can check more frequently, and so I can write on the go too -"

"That's the worst thing you can do - it'll disrupt your sleep, you'll keep checking it when you're with friends and come across as really anti-social. And the writing - it'll distract you at work and make you unproductive-"

"Although, I do have these two readers that keep commenting on everything I post," Malfoy continued as if Hermione hadn't spoken. "They're amazing - they keep me going - 'All_tied_in_knots' and 'BlazeofGlory' are their pen names. And - I keep entering these fests. And competitions. I keep entering more of them when I _know _I don't have time..."

"How many have you entered at the moment?"

"About...fifteen. Well, maybe about ten proper ones and then a few drabbles..."

"Drapple? What's drapple? Is that one of these 'ship names'?"

Malfoy smiled rather patronisingly but considering the situation, Hermione let it pass.

"Drapple - that sounds like a ridiculous name for a ship. No, I said _drabble _\- they're very short stories, like a few hundred words or so. Hermione," Malfoy's voice was low and serious. "I - I think I'm addicted."

"To reading and writing fanfiction?" Hermione asked doubtfully. But then she thought about what she knew of the 'reward systems' in the brain and the neural pathways thought to be responsible for psychological addiction, and she could see how writing fanfiction and the feedback one gained from it - or not - could be similar to the stimulus-response patterns of addiction.

"Yes," Malfoy responded. His voice was barely a whisper.

"Okay," Hermione's mind was now shifting into 'problem-solving' mode, her tone deliberately determined. "Well, we can get you out of this Malfoy. It's not going to be easy, but we can."

Malfoy looked at her through wide, red-rimmed eyes, hope glinting in his irises. "Really?"

"Yes. But you'll need to go cold turkey."

Malfoy tensed, his expression becoming guarded. "No - no - I can't. I can't stop it altogether!" His voice rose as if in panic.

"I think for a bit at least," Hermione said gently, reaching forward to stroke his arm in what she hoped was a comforting gesture. "For a couple of weeks, just to get a hold of it. Then maybe you can ease yourself back in, once you've got more control over it?"

"I - I don't know if I can," Malfoy's voice was strained.

"Yes. Yes, you can," Hermione said, squeezing his hand in hers reassuringly. "You just need some good distractions, that's all. What if we have really hot hate-kinda-like-you-really sex?"

The tension around Malfoy's eyes eased and his lips curled up at the sides. "That might work," he mumbled.

"Okay," Hermione agreed. She rose to her feet, keeping Malfoy's hands clasped in hers. He didn't let go but didn't rise to follow her either. "Let's get out of here, Malfoy," she urged gently.

He was looking wistfully at his computer screen, and Hermione scrambled about in her mind for something to distract him from the lure of fanfiction. "We could call in sick for the rest of the day? Just spend it in bed?...I'll put on the green underwear?"

Malfoy's head jerked away from his laptop and he looked at her with a spark in his eyes, a spark she hadn't seen in days. He rose to his feet and started to follow her out of the room.

"I don't actually like green that much. Green does nothing for me. Red's better. I'll get you some decent red underwear." Malfoy garbled as they left the room and Hermione considered it might finally be time to tell him about some of her kinks.

* * *

Hermione valued friendship highly and never underestimated its power. She needed help with her quest to save Malfoy from the dark underbelly of the fanfiction subculture. He needed the support of people he cared about and who cared about him. She wasn't planning on sharing Malfoy's..._ problem _with them, but she thought they might have some advice on how she could help him or at least distract him. She never thought she'd say it, but she might actually be running out of kinks. Which was why she invited Malfoy's two best friends to Constellation Cottage to meet with her alone.

Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle sat on a sofa in the living room of the cottage, looking decidedly uncomfortable.

"Are you okay, Crabbe? You look a bit twitchy?" Hermione asked.

"I'm Goyle," the man corrected her. Oops. "It's just the books," Goyle looked furtively behind him at the bookshelf, as if Madam Pince was going to materialise from between the shelves. "There's so many of them. It makes me a bit...nervous."

"Right," Hermione didn't know how else to respond to this. Goyle's feelings towards books were, of course, totally unfathomable to her. "Well, Malfoy's having some...issues. And I wondered if you had any suggestions on how I could distract him?"

"Erm...Hermione," Crabbe - or was it Goyle? She'd forgotten already - said awkwardly. "We're not friends with Draco?"

"What?! You were practically attached to him for six years!? Did his every bidding!"

"Exactly," Crabbe-or-Goyle said. "We weren't his _real _friends, just minions. We kind of drifted apart because...well, we're not particularly intelligent and really quite dull. He got bored with us." He finished, dejectedly.

Hermione could see their point, and was slightly impressed by their level of self-awareness. "So, who are his real friends?" she asked. _Oh God, please let him have friends _.

"Theo Nott and Blaise Zabini. They're besties!" Crabbe/Goyle said.

"But Malfoy hardly spoke to them at school?"

"Oh, that all changed in seventh year. You weren't there, of course, but a _lot _of shit went down at Hogwarts that year and Draco changed his friends. Basically," Croyle explained.

That made sense. At least there was an explanation for why Malfoy was suddenly best friends with two boys he'd hardly spent any time with for most of his teenage years.

* * *

A few days later, Theodore Nott and Blaise Zabini sat on a sofa in the living room of the cottage, looking decidedly comfortable.

"Thanks for coming," Hermione began, for some reason feeling much more nervous conversing with these two than with Croyle.

"You're welcome, Granger," Zabini had risen from his seat and was scrabbling around the drinks cabinet. Clearly, he knew his way around the cottage.

"Help yourself," Hermione said sarcastically as Zabini started pouring two firewhiskeys into short tumblers.

"Oh, I will Granger, ta," Zabini said nonchalantly. "Want one?"

"No, thank you," Hermione said. Firewhiskey went straight to her head.

"So, what can we do for you?" Nott said, in a sincere tone, smiling smoothly at Hermione.

Hermione was rather startled by how handsome Nott was. When and how had _that _happened? He had been skinny and scrawny at school, with fair hair. But now his arms were muscular, his shoulders broad and his hair a deep brown. He looked back at her, his eyes shrewd and dark.

"Exercise and protein shakes, Granger," Nott explained his differing physique as if he'd Legilimency-ed her. "And the hair just kind of changed on its own - I think I probably have some Metamorphmagus in me."

It didn't sound plausible. Hermione bet he dyed it.

Nevertheless, as his eyes glinted at her she couldn't help her mind drifting off into thoughts of how Theodore Nott might look naked...and whether Malfoy would be okay with a threesome. She wondered if maybe Nott was a bit dominant and suddenly had an image of him commanding her to do filthy things with Malfoy as he watched. Oh Merlin, that was all rather hot. She felt liquid heat pool between her legs and rubbed her thighs together to get some relief

As Zabini sat down on the sofa next to Nott, Hermione made a concerted effort to mentally shake her dirty thoughts from mind. She needed to focus.

"So...Malfoy's going through a difficult time at the moment and - and he needs some distraction. I wondered if you guys could help me to - to just keep him occupied for a while...and suggest things I could do with him to keep his mind off his...difficulties?" Hermione finished weakly.

They both smirked. Should she take a drink in the 'Smirky Malfoy Drinking Game' if it wasn't Malfoy smirking? Then it would technically be the 'Smirky Slytherins Drinking Game'. Smirky Slytherins. Always smirking or sneering or scoffing or being sardonic or snide or sarcastic or something else arsehole-erish beginning with 's'. Scathing and scornful and sniggering -

The two of them exchanged a knowing look before turning back to Hermione, expressions now serious. 'Serious' - that was one that _wasn't _so arehole-erish -

"Granger - is this to do with the fanfiction?" Nott asked.

Hermione stilled. She hadn't given anything away had she? No, she'd hardly said anything.

"You - you know about that?" Her eyes flickered between the two of them, trying to gather information, but these were Slytherins, and so were well-schooled in subtlety and poker faces.

"He went through a bad patch just after the war, when all the trials were happening. Spent a lot of time holed up in this cottage," Nott explained. "We didn't know what was going on at first but then, when things got really bad, we started to worry. I decided to use some Ministry connections to hack into his computer and found out what he was doing."

"He doesn't know we know. We thought we'd let him tell us in his own time," Zabini joined in, before taking a sip of his whisky.

"But we've been keeping an eye on him."

Hermione's thoughts slotted together like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. "You're All_tied_in_knots!" She exclaimed looking at Nott. "And you're - you're BlazeofGlory!" She gestured to Zabini. Theo smirked an acknowledgement and Blaise nodded.

"We thought it might help if he had an esteem boost so we started reading and reviewing his stuff," Nott confessed.

"That's - that's very nice of you two," Hermione said, unable to hide the surprise in her voice.

They both gave near-identical mocking smiles. "Of course," Nott said confidently. "We might be all jocular and blasé on the outside but, deep down, we really care about our friends. It's what makes us so hot, right? Everyone likes a bad boy who's actually got a heart of gold underneath the dickhead persona, amiright?" And he grinned at her as if they were sharing a special secret.

Hermione swallowed

"Totally," she found herself breathing out the word. She almost sighed wistfully but managed to collect herself and continued in a cold tone, "I mean. Whatever. You said he'd holed himself up in this cottage? I thought he'd just lived here since we - our forced...arrangement?"

Zabini shook his head. "He moved in here straight after the battle. Said he never wanted to go back to the manor."

"Why?"

Nott and Zabini looked at each other awkwardly. "An unwanted guest had made it his home for too long, Granger,' Zabini answered solemnly.

There was too much to process and dissect in what Zabini had said so she pocketed it away for analysis later.

"Things got bad over the summer and into the autumn but then he seemed to shake it off a bit when -" Nott halted, and looked furtively over at Zabini. Merlin, could they not converse for longer than ten seconds without giving each other a meaningful look?

"When what?" Hermione demanded

"When he heard you were going to move in, to be honest," Nott continued. "It seemed to give him a bit of an incentive to sort his shit out."

"He stayed up all night getting this place Granger-ready. Cleared away nearly all of his Gary Swotter paraphernalia. Before you moved in, it was everywhere." Zabini made a sweeping gesture with his hand that seemed to encompass the entire cottage.

"But - but he suggested to me we should move into Malfoy Manor?"

Nott nodded. "He thought you might prefer somewhere less...intimate..."

The news that Malfoy had thought and prepared so much for her stay discombobulated Hermione. It was more information she stored away for later.

"Well," Hermione returned to the topic at hand. "I suppose things have gotten bad again so I wondered...when Gary Swotter fanfiction didn't consume Malfoy's life, what did he like doing?"

Nott and Zabini exchanged _another _look.

"Reading?" Zabini suggested.

Hermione nodded. "We already do a lot of that."

"Sex?" Nott suggested and Hermione ignored the glint in his eye.

"Oh, we're doing a lot of that too," she found herself saying, to her horror. Where had her filter gone when she was with these two?!

Theo smirked and Zabini sniggered. The former turned to the latter and murmured something about galleons.

"Right you are," Zabini replied resignedly. He shifted on the sofa and started to dig around in his pocket. Hermione's thoughts shifted again and came together into possibilities and a theory.

"You - did you two bet on whether Malfoy and I would shag?!" Hermione's voice rose in outrage, but the two Slytherins looked unfazed.

"Yeah...and you being such a ho-bag has lost me seven galleons," Zabini replied sardonically as he passed Nott a handful of coins.

Before she could control herself, Hermione had risen to her feet and jammed a finger in Zabini's chest. "How dare you slut-shame me!" she exclaimed.

Nott snorted in laughter.

Hermione slumped back in the chair she'd been sitting on, willing her temper to dissipate. "Right. Well. I think we've gone off-topic." She summoned as much authority as possible into her voice. "So, apart from reading and sex, what else does Malfoy like doing? And how are you two going to help me get him out of this bad patch?"

* * *

Over the weeks that followed, Hermione, Nott and Zabini ensured that Malfoy was occupied and distracted during his every waking moment. The two Slytherins had confirmed that Malfoy enjoyed flying - which hadn't been a surprise - and Muggle skateboarding - which had. Somewhat apprehensively, she let Malfoy take her out skateboarding. Sometimes, she would stand behind him on the same board and he would cry out for her to stop wobbling and 'dancing around on the board like a clown'. If anyone had been watching a video of them, they would have found it all very endearing.

Hermione also learnt that Malfoy had played the guitar when he was younger and so she encouraged him to take up the instrument again. Occasionally, he would teach her chords during lazy weekend mornings as they sat on the sofa in their pyjamas. Again, if anyone were to have taken a photo of them they would have found it all very sweet.

Over time, Malfoy started to look less gaunt. His eyes lost their bloodshot look and his hair took on a healthy sheen once more. He stopped staying up late and getting out of bed during the night, and started to eat proper, regular meals again. Initially, as per Hermione's suggestion, he managed to endure two weeks of no fanfiction whatsoever, and then kept to boundaries for his reading and writing time, starting with just a few hours a week.

Then, one Sunday morning, about two weeks before Hermione was due to leave the cottage, she caught him gazing intently at her from across the morning papers they were reading at the kitchen table. He was looking at her as if she were a puzzle he was trying to solve - his expression a mixture of surprise and awe.

What?" Hermione asked, lowering her paper.

"Thank you," he said softly.

"What for?" Hermione asked gently, aware the air had suddenly become delicate and fragile.

"For - for saving me - from the dark shadows of fanfiction. I hadn't realised how much it was drawing me in, how I'd allowed myself to become chained to it. Now - now it's like I've been unleashed from that chain. I can still enjoy it, but in a healthy way, without it consuming me and twisting me in terrible ways. I couldn't have done it without you - so thank you."

Hermione couldn't help a broad grin spread across her face. "You're welcome," she said gently, reaching out and squeezing his hand. "You're worth it."

And then they kissed and had really hot sex.

* * *

About a week later, Hermione was sitting on the sofa in the living room of Constellation Cottage with Malfoy's laptop on her knees, frowning determinedly at the screen and typing furiously.

"What are you up to?" Malfoy asked as he entered the room and sat himself down next to her.

"I thought it would be good for us to share interests," Hermione explained enthusiastically. "So I wrote my own fanfiction."

"Fic."

"Who are you calling 'thick'?! I'm the Brightest Witch of My Age!" Okay, she didn't mind the accolade so much if it suited a particular situation.

"I meant you wrote your own _fic. _It's called a fic - the story. Not 'fanfiction.'"

"Whatever. So I wrote a little thing, only about eight thousand words." She turned the laptop towards Draco, inviting him to have a look.

"Cool," Malfoy remarked, peering at the screen, then exclaimed: "You got over one hundred and twenty thumbs-up!"

"Is that good?" Hermione asked innocently.

"The most I've got is sixty seven! Is it mostly porn or something?"

"What? No! There's no sex in it at all!"

"And you have about twenty reviews," Draco continued. Hermione knew him well enough by now to detect the sulkiness in his tone.

"Draco," Hermione said, placing the laptop down on the coffee table. It was the first time she'd said his name - his given name. They both paused, waiting for a flash of lightning or an explosion or something. But there was just silence.

"Why does nothing happen when I say _your _name?" Hermione couldn't help feeling a bit indignant.

Draco shrugged. "Maybe it's not such a big deal."

"Well, anyway...Draco...are you…did I...are you jealous? Of the feedback I got for my fanfiction?"

Draco shrugged. "Maybe a bit envious but I'll get over it."

"Hmm...poor little Drakey," Hermione said in a mock soothing voice, as she shifted her body around and straddled his lap.

"Ugh! Don't ever call me that again. Even in jest," Draco said in disgust.

Hermione chuckled at his reaction, then leaned forward to kiss him. Merlin, she really did like kissing him. "I'm sorry I got more thumbs-up than you," she said with mock sincerity. "Would a little fellatio help?" Because she liked sucking his cock possibly more than she liked kissing him.

Draco stifled a groan, and she wiggled in his lap and felt him harden underneath her. "I think that would help immensely...but maybe later...I - I wanted to talk to you about something." Draco was doing his awkward stuttering thing again.

"Oh. Okay?"

"So, it's only a few days until the having-to-live-with each-other-for-six-months thing is over and I wanted to say - to ask - to say that, if you, well -"

"Draco, would you spit it out?"

Draco half-smiled. "That's what _you're _gonna be doing in a bit, right?"

Hermione hit him light-heartedly on the chest. "Don't be crude. Instead, articulate whatever it was you were failing miserably to say."

Draco inhaled deeply and then said in a rush, "I mean to say - if you wanted to, you could stay here for longer - keep living here. I - I've liked your company. Obviously," he arched up slightly, pressing his erection into her and Hermione couldn't help grind herself against it, a tiny bit. "I know you probably don't want to, but if you did, you'd be welcome."

"Oh. That's - that's very kind of you," Hermione thought about how Draco always put the toilet seat down and never put empty milk cartons back in the fridge (although it could well have been Yippee doing both those things). And how he read books and talked about them. And about the rock hard erection she could feel between her legs. "Yes. I think I'd like that very much."

She leaned towards him again and they kissed more deeply this time - warm and slow and tender.

"So, what story are you working on at the moment?" Hermione asked when they came up for air.

"Just a little short thing for a comp. It's kind of like a crackfic and parody, but I'm a bit nervous about posting it."

"Why?"

"Well, I'm worried that some people might take offence, think that I'm criticising a certain trope, or style of writing or something. But I really don't mean it in that way of course, it's all meant to be very light-hearted."

"I'm sure they won't take it all that seriously, will they?"

"I hope not."

"And have you decided on your OTP yet?" Hermione asked, proud of herself for using the fanfiction lingo.

Draco grinned impishly at her. "Well, I was thinking that my one true pairing is...Hermione and Draco."

Hermione couldn't help the smile spreading across her face. "I think I could ship that. What would our ship name be?" she asked teasingly.

Draco looked thoughtful. "Dra - Dra...mione. Dramione?"

"Why does the man's name have to come first? That's another classic example of male privilege. Why can't it be Her-Herco? Or Hermico?"

"Erm...I don't see why it couldn't be Hermico. Hermico - my OTP!" Draco declared as he pulled her towards him.

And as Hermione folded herself into his warm embrace, she found she actually gave zero fucks what their ship name was, as long as he never let her go.


End file.
